


White Orchards to Blue Roses

by DaharMaster



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Flash Fic, Gen, characters who deserved More and Better, some much needed closure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 06:17:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18845344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaharMaster/pseuds/DaharMaster
Summary: Radovid won the war against Nilfgaard over ten years ago now, and Tomira the herbalist of White Orchard nearly died because of it, but still has gotten a new lease on life, albeit in a far off land.





	White Orchards to Blue Roses

And they called witchers heartless and cruel, no emotion to them. Maybe that was true of other witchers. Perhaps it was true of Geralt as well, it wasn’t as if Tomira knew him all that well, but whatever his reasons he could certainly give a damn, which was more than she could say for most.

Back just after the Black Ones had stormed into White Orchard he’d appeared, initially to ask about buckthorn, but he’d sensed her sadness and asked her about herself. That was the first time. As it turns out, he had also laid Claer, who in death had become some manner of wraith, to proper rest at last. That made two.

Then what he’d done for Lena, the poor girl. When he finally returned to White Orchard that fateful day after Radovid the Rabid had recaptured it, and saved her from the mad king’s hunters who meant to burn her at the stake, he mentioned he’d found Lena again after the Black Ones took her away. He hadn’t said how she had fared, though, but that told Tomira plenty.

How many damns did that man have to give? Well he’d had one more. It had come in as a pouch full of coins, enough to get her across the Yaruga, enough to get her somewhere safe.

That was perhaps a decade past. She had a new hut, one with a nicer view. Instead of a white orchard, fields of blue roses swept across the hills around her. She was fairly free to ply her trade, too.

Getting used to the climate of Nazair and of course learning Nilfgaardian had taken some doing, but she got by. As it happened, the Nazairis were tolerant folk it seemed, even decent perhaps.

Yet she felt something was unfinished, something had been left unsaid last she’d seen the witcher. She did not pine for him, no, she only wished she had thanked him, truly, properly thanked him. Because he had given her something more than he knew. He’d given her hope, hope that people could give a damn.

But something told her one day there’d be a knock at her door and again she’d see that grizzled face, probably sporting a few new scars, framed by ashen hair.

Even if that day never came, however, Tomira was something most people in that time were not: content.


End file.
